The Good Neighbour of Lavender Hill ...

Sophie invited us to the Battersea Arts Centre on New Years Eve - she'd produced the Christmas Show, The Good Neighbour - we would stay in the flat overlooking the Regents Canal, dwellers for a while in one of London's many worlds -

We got off the train at Clapham Junction - I thought of all times I'd gone past this station, glimpsed it at night, say, from a silent carriage, lost in some sad reverie, or early in the morning, on my way to a shiny conference - 

We emerged from a teeming passage into Battersea - a slim black girl guarded the changing rooms in Debenhams - I was awestruck by the wonderful lingerie - 

Leaving the store, we walked up Lavender Hill - soon we were inside the splendid marble halls of the Arts Centre - I saw Pete, who looks like the executioner in Game of Thrones - 

Sophie joined us for lunch in the cafe - all around us sat charming infants with their elegant glossy parents - they were there for the matinee performance of The Good Neighbour - 

Soon after two o'clock, we assembled in the old Council Chamber to be divided up into groups - we were in group number six - this was promenade theatre Sophie told us - 

We met George Neighbour, perched, trembling, on top of a tall step ladder - a gorgeous siren tempted him down the ladder, to tell us his story - 

George only knew that he was afraid of windows, ladders and heights - all the rest was a scary blank, a void he wanted us to help him fill - 

So, we set off, up broad stone staircases, along narrow twisting corridors, led by our guide, a slender dark haired woman - she led us into a series of rooms, each one surreal and beautiful - before the door of each room, she would pause, smiling her watchful yet dazzling smile, inviting one of us to lock gently upon the door - 

I loved the Momentarium - in a dimly lit space, hundreds of glass jars were filled with water, some full, some half or a third full, some empty - water dripped into the jars from above our heads - a gentle man in a long brown coat explained that each jar was a life, each drop of water a memory, a precious experience -

Jerky poignant home movies played on the surface of the cloth from which the drops of water fell - you saw dads with 1970's haircuts, toddlers on trikes, paddling pools in tiny gardens - my heart ached when I saw such artless scenes - 

Another room, containing a smooth grey tree, was filled with smoke - stringed instruments played sad music - boxes full of secrets were piled up against cob webbed walls - 

We were given a slip of paper, on which to write something precious we had lost - Anne drew a little doll - I drew a little heart - 

Later, we entered a room full of talking light bulbs - crackling voices warned us of the dangers of electricity -

The humming of bees led us inside a beehive - we sat, cross legged, next to a Japanese woman who was dressed as a bee - we heard her story, how she'd sacrificed herself for the good of the hive - 

We met up with our fellow voyagers in the Council Chamber - we shared our thoughts about George from the clues we had uncovered in different dreams - 

The story was a haunting one - George Neighbour had been a chef, working in Arding and Hobbs, an Edwardian department store, now the Debenhams we'd visited, worlds ago - 

There'd been a fire, which swept through the building, consuming bowler hats and corsets - passersby had seen George appear at an upper window, with two shopgirls -

George had guided the girls to a long ladder, helped them onto it, and waited until they were safe on the pavement - but then the fire had eaten away the floor, and he was taken by the flames - 

Your'e a ghost - the children cried out - I know who I am cried George - my eyes brimmed with tears -